The Saltwater Remedy

The city feels like a heavy coat I've been forced to wear for too long—stiff with the dust of deadlines and the grime of subway rides. I came here because my bones were aching from the noise, seeking something that wouldn't talk back or demand more from me.

The water is freezing against my skin, a sharp shock that clears the mental fog like a bucket of cold water over a tired face. I sit on this jagged rock, letting the spray mist my hair until it sticks to my cheeks. It’s raw, it’s messy, and it feels real.

Then there's him. He isn't here physically yet, but his memory is the warmth in my chest that counters the cold tide. He’s the one who told me to stop trying to be perfect for everyone else. He’s the voice in my head reminding me that it’s okay to just exist, to breathe without purpose.

I lean back into the spray, closing my eyes against the sun's glare. My skin feels alive, tingling with salt and light. In this moment, between the crashing waves and the golden hour glow, I’m not a cog in a machine or a face in a crowd. I am just a woman finding herself again—one heartbeat at a time, washing away the city till all that's left is the truth of who I am.

Editor: Alleyway Friend